


(this is the longest kiss) good night

by BeeLove



Category: Mary Poppins (Movies), Mary Poppins - All Media Types
Genre: (Allusions to fist fights at any rate), F/M, Fist Fights, Hurt/Comfort, Making Out, Protectiveness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-16
Updated: 2019-01-16
Packaged: 2019-10-11 05:43:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,418
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17441039
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BeeLove/pseuds/BeeLove
Summary: In which Jane Banks defends Jack's honor with everything she has -- including her fists.





	(this is the longest kiss) good night

**Author's Note:**

> (title comes from the song Fast Blood, by Frightened Rabbit)

Frost clings to her hair, settling in the spirals of her curls like an omen, as Jane Banks edges carefully through the brisk gloom of the night. The winter hour is later than she would like, and she has almost no reason to be out in it – except SPRUCE had hosted a soup kitchen in one of the neighborhood's smaller churches, and Jane was loathe to leave the working bellies of London empty. Besides, these are _her_ streets in _her_ city, and Jane Banks refuses to be afraid.

Double besides, there is always a chance she will see _him_ ; night is his domain, and she can't help but feel lucky under the shroud of moon and stars.

Tightening her hand on the strap of her satchel, Jane straightens her spine against the encroaching damp. She lets her head drop back and breathes in deep. Something cruel and broken is brewing in the air; she can feel it reaching for her with spindly, crooked fingers. With it comes a voice – a voice she recognizes in the marrow of her soul – pitched by panic and nerves.

“Oh Jack,” Jane whispers and takes off like an arrow, her footsteps echoing in staccato through the fog. His voice pulls her through the shade, and she rounds a corner, her shoes skidding against the slick of the sidewalk. Finally, Jane catches sight of him; her heart throws itself against her ribs, as if to reach him first. She pushes a hand against her sternum hard, trying to calm the drumbeat in her chest.

Jack hasn't seen her yet; he is talking to two other men – their backs are to her, but she can see Jack's face in the spill of gaslight across the ground. She pauses, a few lampposts away, and takes him in. Red – somehow dark and bright at the same time – smudges across his left eyebrow. It glistens wetly against the light, and Jane feels something hot and powerful unfurl in her lungs. She presses a hand against the frigid metal of her lamppost – her fingers burn, and she uses the pain to focus as she exhales unsteadily. The fog of her breath blooms and disappears into the shadows beyond her brightly lit circle, and she prepares to follow it.

Jane Banks refuses to be afraid.

Still unnoticed, she studies Jack. His shirt is crooked and crumpled and his right cuff is ripped – she can see the fabric gape awkwardly as he gestures carefully with his hands. None of this feels right. The fury in her lungs spreads through the rest of her; the chill gripping her bones flees suddenly into the abyss of the night. While his clothes have never been of high quality, Jack prides himself on keeping neat and clean. He mends his vests when they tear, sews his buttons back in place when they hang loose, and never lets the grime of London's gutters stain his trousers.

The other two men with him are solid and sturdy, though they carry themselves as if they've only ever used their bulk for their own gain. They've never tried to stop a child from being carried away by a kite. They've never loaded a truck full of furniture and boxes for a friend. They've never climbed the side of Big Ben to turn back time. They don't illuminate the night. They lumber about in the unlit corners of the world like they can't comprehend the brightness of a candle.

“Now, listen, fellas,” Jack smiles, though it's tilted with fear, and he keeps his hands low. “I think you might'uve gotten the wrong idea bout all this. I'm not lookin for –” Whatever he isn't looking for gets choked off by a whine when one of the men – plaid coat, gray scarf – grabs him by the collar and tugs him close. The other – brown coat, blue scarf – leans in. Jane isn't sure what he says, but Jack's eyes go wide.

Jane curls her hands into fists and takes the first step out of the flickering candlelight. Darkness has never been kind to her; she doesn't live in it like Jack. She feels like an interloper, trespassing on the brink of betrayal, and her blonde hair sparks in the catching lamplight. She doesn't blend in. She'll be seen.

_Please_ , she thinks desperately, _grant me passage. Let me protect him._

And like that, she melts into the shadows. They cling to her, skittering over her pale skin and gleaming curls until she is bathed in ink. Even the glow in her eyes is extinguished. The clicking of her precises footsteps is swallowed wholly and completely. Jane slinks through the dark, avoiding the stark pools of lamplight until she reaches his bicycle – waiting just a few yards away from its master.

Her gaze doesn't waver – she keeps her stare fixed on Jack, even as she lifts the strap of her satchel over her head. Silently, she slips her bag into the bicycle basket; it's imperative that she is unencumbered. Her experience with fighting is limited to fisticuffs with Michael – thrown before and after Mary Poppins's term as their childhood nanny – but she knows that she doesn't need to give potential attackers something to grab.

Maybe it's why she keeps her hair so short.

Still focused on Jack, she reaches for the lamplighting pole hanging off the bicycle basket. The weight of it is solid and sturdy in her hand – a hand most accustomed to picket signs, though she realizes there is more than one way to take a stand. Her grip is steady as she steps – loudly and deliberately – towards the specimens threatening her leerie. The rage simmers under her skin like a living creature, and Jane exhales in a long, low hiss.

It's this sound that finally catches their attention; Jack's eyes widen desperately when they land on her face. “Oh Jane,” he sighs, so quiet and sad that she almost misses it, except that she is utterly enamored with the sound of her name in his voice, on his lips. She can see now that his jaw is pink and raw with a fresh welt, and she smiles at him.

“What's all this about, then?” Jane keeps her voice bright, like when she's talking to a cop at a rally. No need to give the nozzers a reason to rough up her and her fellow demonstrators. She keeps her chin high as Brown Coat fixes her with a mean stare over his shoulder. He cups his hands in front of his mouth to warm them, and she notices a few rings glinting on his fingers. The icy chill of fear drips into her belly at the sight.

“Nuffin for you to worry 'bout, love.” Plaid Coat tries to assure her, his grip relentless on Jack's collar. “S'man business. You understand.” He laughs at his own private joke, and Brown Coat adds his own cruel chuckles. Jane swallows, squinting her eyes against the offense. She doesn't tolerate endearments from many men – especially when they're delivered with such dismissal.

“Run along now,” Brown Coat mutters, nudging his companion with his elbow. “This ain't nuffin to do with you.” Both coats decide this is enough – a few vague lines tossed her way is sufficient. She has been dealt with. Too many men have dealt with her like this. Company men who would have her abandon her labor crusade, policemen who would have her drop her accusations of brutality on the job, men everywhere who curl their lip at her trousers, men everywhere who would rather have her in the kitchen and out of the workforce.

They turn away from her and, in their minds, she disappears. Jane Banks ceases to exist. More for her advantage, she supposes. They'll never see her coming. Brown Coat prods his friend again, and Plaid Coat draws back his fist. He catches Jack on the mouth, and she catches him on the back of the head with the lamplighting pole. She feels the force of the blow as wood creaks but does not break. Such a loyal tool, she considers numbly as Plaid Coat drops to the pavement.

His cap sails off his head – his bald and bleeding head, Jane notes with detached accomplishment. She eyes him for a moment, only dimly aware of Jack skittering around to duck behind her. Good. Let him seek shelter and safety where she can provide. Plaid Coat doesn't move, save for the steady wheezing of his breath. Lifting her gaze to Brown Coat – who stands frozen, slack jawed at her brutality – she tightens her grasp on her makeshift weapon until her knuckles turn white.

“Perhaps you should run along now,” Jane suggests mildly despite the rushing in her ears. She doesn't want to hit him, but perhaps she does. Perhaps she wants to hit him over and over, until she can be sure that Jack is safe. Until she can be sure that Jack will never be hurt again. Perhaps she wants to hit them both, until neither of them can get up again. Until the wheezing of their breath stops and never starts again.

Her brutality should scare her, but Jane Banks refuses to be afraid.

“Perhaps you should run along now, _and never touch him again_ ,” her voice burns through the frost of the night, and Brown Coat takes a hesitant step back.

“Course – course, love. Would never –” Whatever he would never gets choked off when she points the pole at him.

“Don't call me that. _I am not your love._ ” In another world, she would feel ridiculous – pointing a glorified wooden stick at someone like she's playing pretend. Like she's a knight rescuing a princess. Except, Jane glances over her shoulder as Jack readies his bicycle, perhaps she is. His face is bloodied and his clothes are ruined, but Jack is beautiful in the hazy glow of the lamps. Perhaps she can be his knight – if only for now, in this moment, in this darkness. 

“Jane,” he calls to her cautiously, “let's go.” She turns back to Brown Coat and doesn't look away until she climbs on the back on Jack's bike. He doesn't dare move – not to try to come after them or even check on his companion. All the time, she refuses to let go the lamplighting pole. She can't – not until she knows they're both safe. Her fingers tense and ache, but her grip doesn't slacken.

They cut through the night; the tires of Jack's bike sing against the slick of the street as they fly in and out of bright circles of lamplight. Jack is silent, and Jane feels something electric bubbling in her blood. She doesn't know what to make of his nonverbal state. He never doesn't speak to her – even when they snake through a loud street market, he'll lean close to provide delightful judgments on the chaos. She unclenches one hand from around the lamplighting pole and reaches forward to hook one finger carefully in his coat sleeve. Not enough to guide him or throw him off balance, but enough to let him know that she's there.

The cold air stings her eyes, and she tilts her face into the wind. Desperately, she wants to cling tightly to Jack, press her nose into the warmth between his shoulder blades and breathe him in. She yearns for him – feels bigger than her body with how much she adores him. Jane can't stop herself – her head drops forward to rest against his back. He doesn't shake her off; instead he gently takes her hand from his sleeve and settles it on his chest, all without taking his eyes off the street in front of them. She spreads her fingers wide and lets the heat of him seep into her skin.

Jack slows and finally stops the bike, and Jane is reluctant to let him go. He slips his hand over hers until his fingers are tucked just inside her coat sleeve, and he rubs at her wrist with his thumb until she finally releases him. She loosens her grip on the lamplighting pole and lets him take it from her. Her hands don't shake, and she feels oddly proud of that. He returns the lamplighting pole to its holster on the basket of his bicycle, and Jane has a quick glance around. They're near the park, she realizes, far enough away that it would take a decent walk to reach her brother's house and an even farther trek to reach her own home. Jack reaches for her and she lets him help her off the bike.

“We should be all right now,” he mumbles, mostly to himself, but Jane nods all the same. Her eyes stay fixed on his face as he looks around them. His hands are still holding her wrists, as he takes in the trees granting them shelter. The branches, unadorned by leaves, scrape against the bitter, winter sky. “Are you all right?” He pulls her closer to one of the lamps as he studies her face in the flickering light.

“Yes, I'm fine.” His sweetness almost makes her smile – he is the one mottled with bruises and bloodstains, but he still asks after her. Selfless, as always. “But Jack – what about you?” She raises her hand to his face, stopping short of actually touching him. “They hurt you.”

“Oh, now,” he shrugs, bashful, and Jane's heart aches with affection. “really s'not too bad. You saved me from the worst of it.”

“You're bleeding,” and he is – the wound on his eyebrow has left blood caked across his temple and forehead. Her voices catches like a record skip when he tries to smile. “Jack, I was so scared for you,” Jane blurts before she can stop herself, and her hand drops from hovering near his hairline to gripping his shirt. He winds his arms carefully around her waist, hands settling warm and heavy on her lower back. “You don't need to be brave anymore.”

“I'm always brave when you're around,” he whispers, peering down at her. He isn't that much taller than she is, so it's easy for her to meet his eyes – fondly warm and free of judgment. She loosens her grip so she can straighten his collar, and his smile melts into something unbearably gentle. “Really, 'm all right, love – sorry, Jane – 'm all right, Jane. You don't need t'be frightened.”

“You can call me love,” Jane reminds him, even as his face flushes pink. It's dusted, lovely like sugar, across his cheeks and nose. “I don't mind when you do.”

“Long as you don't smack me 'round for it,” he laughs when her eyes widen in disbelief. “I'm glad you're on my side – you're quite the terror, Jane Banks.”

“Only for you,” she gasps, reaching for outraged but settling on startled joy. “Really Jack – I thought those men were going to hurt you. I couldn't do nothing!” Her head drops to press against his shoulder, so she can mask her honesty where he won't see it.

“I know, love,” the endearment slips out with ease, and she shivers at the sweetness. Thinking her cold, he tightens his arms around her until she's bundled solidly in his warmth. “You probably saved my life tonight – thank you.” Jane pulls back just far enough to meet his tender gaze. “You're one of a kind, you are.”

“I know, love,” she repeats back to him, voice quiet despite the jest. His smile grows and she can feel it when he kisses her – quick and soft and over too soon. He tries to pull away, but she doesn't let him get very far; Jane leans up into him and grabs fistfuls of his jacket lapels.

Their breaths mingle in the chill – quiet puffs of fog – and he stares at her, asking questions without words. “I'm so glad you're all right,” she whispers in the scant space between their mouths, and then it's her turn to smile as she kisses him.

Jack has never shied away from kissing her, though his kisses have always been shy. He never pushes too hard – his hands always hover in the air, mere centimeters over her ribcage, barely touching but never gripping. He doesn't touch her hair or tangle his fingers in her curls – only occasionally does he tuck a stray lock behind her ear. Jack is a gentleman; he prides himself on his manners, and it might be due to their difference in social standings, but he would never do anything to compromise her.

Even if she wants to be compromised.

She slides one hand up across his chest to the back of his neck and scrapes her nails softly against the delicate skin she finds there. Jack shivers, hissing quietly against her lips, and his fingers dig into the flesh of her hips. She laughs and immediately regrets it when he ducks his head, efficiently breaking their kiss. His hands drop instantly to his sides.

“Sorry,” he apologizes in a mumble, staring resolutely at his shoes. “I didn't – that is.” He squints his eyes shut and shakes his head. “I shouldn't 've grabbed at you like that – it isn't proper a'all. I shouldn't be grabbin' at you like this a'all – 'specially when we're out in the dark. Forgive me.”

“Oh Jack,” she cups his face and forces him to look at her. Even so, he keeps his eyes fixed absolutely on his shoes, face wrought with shame. “I most certainly will not forgive you – because there is nothing to forgive,” she assures quickly when he flinches. “I'm not hurt. And, besides, I don't mind when you grab at me. I trust you.” Her face burns at her admission, but she refuses to look away from him; she's not going to hide how much she adores him.

“Y'mean it?” His eyes shine in the lamplight – liquid and bright with flickering gold – and something seizes in her chest. Jane can't help herself – she laughs with delight and disbelief.

“I most certainly do – Jack, I _love_ you.” His lips part in surprise, and she doesn't wait for a response. Jane lunges for him, pushing her mouth against his and licking past his still parted lips. The night is so bitterly cold, but he is so divinely warm; she chases his heat, slicking her tongue over his until she's drowning in his affection. 

He takes a few slow steps back until she has him pushed against a lamppost. Jane doesn't relent or retreat; she uses the leverage to mold fully up against the length of him. Jane feels his coat buttons and belt buckle all press into her, but it doesn't hurt. Nothing about this hurts. Jack settles his hands carefully on her hips, and she rewards him by scratching her nails over his scalp. His fingers spasm in response, and she hums happily when his grip tightens and he pulls her closer.

Let him leave bruises.

One hand slides up her back, leaving behind a trembling trail of goosebumps, as he tangles his fingers in her hair. Whatever chill had clung to her is gone now; the cold evaporates in the wake of their desperate kisses. They break apart, panting, and Jack drops his head back, eyes still closed. His chest heaves with great gusts of air, but he doesn't release his hold on her. Jane nudges her nose affectionately against his, and he smiles, slow and easy, without opening his eyes.

“You're one of a kind, you are,” he huffs, voice hitching with a rasp, and she drops one more peck on his lips before tucking her mouth against the slope of his neck. He tilts his head, allowing her all the freedom she could want, and settles the hand not buried in her curls steadily on the small of her back. They're tangled together, safe in a halo of lamplight, and Jane never wants to leave. Shadows rustle through the bare tree branches above them, but she isn't afraid.

She nuzzles into him, pinning the heavy thrum of his pulse under her teeth, as she sucks a bruise onto his skin. The blood vessels burst and bloom under her mouth, and Jane can't help but be proud of the reddened mark. She's even prouder of the sounds Jack makes – he whines slightly, catching his breath on a keen, as he shudders under her. Unapologetic, she laves her tongue across his skin. Now all of London will know that he belongs to her. No one will ever hurt him again.


End file.
